Sketches Upon the Childhood of Sherlock Holmes
by Heavenly Awkward
Summary: Sketches, to me, are rough recordings of something that is already there, preserving the roughest skeleton of its true form, yet promising so much more with its very emptiness... Welcome to the life of a man, whose name would soon be known everywhere...
1. Author's Notes

Sketches Upon the Childhood of Sherlock Holmes

by Heavenly Awkward

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and all related characters are the sole creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

AUTHOR'S NOTES

Writing this, I feel like it's really a series of sketches, a study on a subject, rather than a story, or even a report. Sketches, to me, are rough recordings of something that is already there. If I sketch a flower, I am preserving it in the roughest skeleton of its true existence--much as I always felt Sir A. Conan Doyle did with Sherlock Holmes. He and I see the whole being, but only preserve the skeleton, the bare outlines. But in doing so, be manage to capture, in this unfinished spirit, not the whole rest of its existence, but the hints of it, the promise that it is there, somewhere, waiting to display its full glory for those who only with to find it. That, I think, is why so many Sherlockians play "The Game", pretending that Holmes's world is real--they can't resist looking for answers to what else, exactly, there is.

When I sketch, I do it from life, so they all have a fresh feel. Whether it's a cat or a tree or a flower, whether it's a realistic recording of how someone looks or a simplified representation of their personality, all I sketch--and in fact, I only sketch, I never do finished drawings as a rule--seems to have a full life and a history. I feel the life in whatever I draw, even if it isn't technically alive. That's probably why, in this series of sketches, I find myself thinking of Holmes as a real person, with a past, with feelings, with people around him who care about him--and a few who, frankly, don't. I imagined him as a man who had a childhood much like mine, though with a few differences, because I can never help but notice how alike the two of us are. He's become a strong, eccentric, and very real person to me, even more so than the other characters I've conceived or adopted. Why? Beats me. But I can hardly ignore it, can I?

It's the life that I love, even though it's not always a joyous life. Sometimes it is sad--often, in fact. Sometimes it's angry, or unfair, or happy. But if, reading this, you sympathize with the ups and the downs, cry, love, and laugh with the two of us--and yet always feel that life, then I've done my job well. That's the magic I try to work here.

Heavenly Awkward


	2. 1 The Beginning of The Game

Sketches Upon the Childhood of Sherlock Holmes--The Beginning of The Game

By: Heavenly Awkward

Holmes commented once that he possessed all the energy of the family. It always seemed to me that he also possessed the greater amount of the curiosity. Thinking on this, it strikes me as likely that, in the Holmes brothers' childhood, Sherlock was probably the first to start their little game of observation, for it probably started as a game. Naturally, The Game would begin with watching people in crowds. But what crowds would show up enough in the life of two young upper middle-class boys that they would think to make a game of watching them? Why, parties, of course!  
.

* * *

.

"Mycroft? Hey, Mycroft! Come here!"

Mycroft sighed and closed his book. "Mother'll be mad if she hears you using that word again."

"But mum isn't here right now, she's down with all those fancy people."

"What did you want me for?"

"I want you to watch the people with me!"

"Sherlock..."

"No, really! Look, do you see that lady, right there?" Sherlock leaned over the banister and pointed a little six-year-old finger at a young woman. She had an oval face and smooth honey-brown hair. She was just coming in. She smiled at the two of them. "I bet she's like our mother was, really nice and all!"

"What makes you think that?"

"But I think she was! Look, she dresses like mother did, all pretty and bright!" The woman's dress was elegant, though very simple, scarlet, with white lace and gold trim. The color was very vivid. She was very beautiful. Mycroft looked thoughtful.

"I bet she likes dogs and horses and cats and gives out cookies and wears a skeleton key around her neck, just like mama did!"

"You don't know that, just by looking at her!" Mycroft said, like Sherlock was being silly, and didn't correct his brother's run-on sentence.

"Yes I do!"

"Prove it to me then!"

"I can't."

"Hah."

"Alright then, tell me about that man!"

"Which one?"

"That one, the one that looks like a dwarf!"

"The old short man with the brown hair?"

"Yeah!"

"He's careless, hurried, and doesn't like parties much."

"You forgot the chocolate!"

"What?"

"He's eating so much chocolate!"

"Oh yes. He loves chocolate."

"And he's rich!"

"How do you know that?"

"Only rich people can get a lot of chocolate. And his clothes are nice."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock. He hadn't thought of that. Smart. "He doesn't seem to like the clothes, though." Then he got an idea. "Maybe someone else buys them for him."

"And makes him come to the parties! I bet it's his wife."

"Or some other woman."

"Why would it be another woman?"

"I'll tell you when you're older."

"Why just then?"

"Sherlock..."

"Hey, I wonder what that man is doing talking to mum!"

"The tall one?"

"Mm-hm, the one who looks polite!"

"Polite is a way you act, not a way you look."

"Well, he looks polite. Like... Like a gentleman!"

"Look, he's calling over that woman from earlier!"

"The one that's like mama?"

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do!"

"How, then?"

"Well, she smiled at us, so she had to be nice."

"People who smile aren't always nice."

"But she looked like she meant it! And I saw a key around her neck when she took off her cloak, and she smelled a little like Gabriel did when she passed."

"Oh. You think she has a dog like Gabriel was?"

"Yeah!"

Mycroft scowled at the woman for a moment. "What about the cookies?"

"Well... Mama made cookies."

Mycroft smiled, then scowled again.

"She smelled a little like mama did, too."

"Oh."

"The same sort of perfume."

"Oh."

Not to be outdone, Mycroft looked at the pretty woman and polite man. "They know each other."

"Uh-huh."

"They're brother and sister."

"What! How do you know that?"

"Well, they don't look like they're married to each other..."

"They don't act like mama and papa did together."

"Yeah. But they know each other. And they act a little like mother and her brother Augustus do together."

Sherlock nodded, remembering with Mycroft their step-uncle Augustus. "And the man."

"What about him?"

"He looks like papa did when mama died, before she came."

Mycroft knew already who "she" was. The one who hosted all these parties. "I wonder what they're talking about?"

"We can always ask."

"Yeah."

"Does mother know them?"

"Look, papa's coming over to them!"

"Does he know them?"

"You ask too many questions."

"I can't help it, I want to know."

"Mother's looking at us."

"Uh-oh. My bedtime. You know, I think it's funner to watch people with someone else to talk to about it."

"Me too."

"How can you know, you've never done it before..."

* * *

.  
"Mum, who was that short little man with the pushy wife? The one who likes chocolates so much?"

The fair-haired woman started a little in surprise, big blue eyes blinking. "Why, that was Mr. Porlock."

"What a funny name."

"How did you know about his wife? Have you been listening to the maids gossiping?"

"No, we just watched him and decided that his wife made him come."

"We?"

"Me and Mycroft."

"Ah. Well, you were right. Mrs. Porlock is quite the socialite," she said, smiling.

"What's a socialite?"

"It's someone who cares a lot about her friends, and has a lot of them."

"Like you?"

She laughed. "A little, yes, I am. I do love my friends."

"And what about the tall, polite man and his sister, who's so pretty and has a dog?"

"How do you...? Well, well, I do find myself with an observant son, don't I? Don't do too much of that, or people will think you're nosy."

"Well, who are they?"

"They're going to be yours and Mycroft's new tutors."

"Ohhh."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Mum?"

"Yes?"

"Uh... I've been trying out calling you "mother" and "mum" for all while you've been here, but... Well, I don't think I like it."

"Ah, you just want to keep "mother" for your real mother, hm?" She looked a little sad.

"Yeah."

"Well then, you can call me Gail, if you want."

"Thanks."

"Your welcome. Now good night, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, Gail." Sherlock rolled over. "Oohhhh. Hm-hm." He smiled, because they had been right.


	3. 2 Gleaming Wood and Rounded Fingers

Sketches Upon the Childhood of Sherlock Holmes--Gleaming Wood and Rounded Fingers  
  
by Heavenly Awkward  
  
From the moment I read the passage that first mentioned Holmes's musicianship ("Do you include violin playing in your category of rows?" "It depends on the player. A well-played violin is a treat for the gods--a badly played one--" "Oh, that's no problem then!"), I felt that a gap in his character had been filled--it seemed impossible to me that such a man could not be a musician, though that's mostly because I live for music myself. But still, I thought that he must have some musical talent, and Lo and Behold! I was right. Then I read the full paragraph in the same story that elaborated on just how good he was--exceptionally so--I began to wonder just how much time he had spent on the violin. And who was his teacher?  
.

* * *

.  
Mournful, all sad lullabyes about dying fathers and lost loves and rain on crying children, a clear singing voice with no words, more beautiful than the sun shining through glass, more beautiful than could be imagined. The sound of heaven drifted through the passages to the skinny little boy curled against the wall, where he had slumped, hopelessly lost in the dark during midnight wanderings. He stood up and followed it, wondering dreamily if his mother was trying to let him find her. Golden candlelight peeked around the edges of a door so he opened it and stepped into the fire-warmed room. Standing tall, with the violin tucked under chin, shadowed with fire and candle light, she played with her eyes closed in her nightgown and her honey-brown hair loose. The last quivering note ended and she looked at him.  
  
"I'm sorry, I just couldn't see where I was in the dark and I heard your music and--"  
  
"No, no, don't go, Sherlock. Tell me, did you like what you heard?" She knelt to see him eye to eye, the key on the chain round her neck bouncing a bit.  
  
Sherlock nodded, grey eyes wide in wonder, and burst out, "Can you teach me to play like that?" Then he blushed and looked away.  
  
"Do you want to play like that?"  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"It takes many, many years, and a lot of time to play that well. You'll be much older than Mycroft by then. Do you still want to?"  
  
"Of course I do."  
  
"All right. I'll teach you then."  
  
"You will?"  
  
"Yes. Is that alright with you?"  
  
"Oh, yes!" Sherlock's eyes, still large and round as they had been two years ago, when she first saw him as he sat with Mycroft on the stair, lit up with happiness.  
  
"But now you need to get to bed. Come on, I'll bring my candle." She picked up the candle and led him back out through the halls. The candlelight made the jeweled eyes of a statue glow like little fires as they passed. He whimpered and stepped closer to her, and she squeezed his little hand. Then they came to his door, and she tucked him into bed.  
  
"Now, no more midnight wanderings, all right?" She said, tapping him on the nose. He blinked and smiled and nodded. "It's time for you to sleep--if you don't sleep, you'll be tired tomorrow, or whenever it catches up to you."  
  
"Okay." Sherlock caught the key hanging on the necklace and looked at it. "This is the key for all the doors, isn't it?"  
  
"All except a few."  
  
"Mama wore one."  
  
"This is the same key."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Mm-hm."  
  
Sherlock looked at the key for another moment. He kissed it, then kissed her on the cheek. She smiled and kissed him back.  
  
"Goodnight, Sherlock." Sherlock was already half-asleep.  
  
"'Night, ma..."  
  
She shook her head, smiling, and left, closing the door behind her, and he dreamt of the violin music, sweet as angel-song.

* * *

"Sherlock? Sherlock, get up! Up, you sleepyhead!" The door opened and she stepped in, grinning and looking excited.  
  
"Mm?" Sherlock was immediately awake, but didn't get up. "What for?"  
  
"I've talked to your father about music lessons. We're going to get you a violin!"  
  
Sherlock gasped in excitement and leapt out of bed. She laughed and went back out so he could get dressed.  
  
A half an hour later, she held his hand as they stepped out of the carriage and through the door. A bell was hooked to it so that it jingled as the door opened. The sharp-eyed man behind the counter looked up.  
  
"Coming to buy a violin, Miss? No, one for the lad, I perceive."  
  
"Yes."  
  
The man was tall, Sherlock thought, like her brother, but he was tall and polite and proud and gentle and stern, while this man was tall and... something. Different. Strange. Offbeat. Yes, yes, that was it. He'd heard Gail say that about someone last week. In music, everyone in the group followed one beat. But this man didn't seem to follow the same beat. Everything he did was odd, somehow. Why? Sherlock watched him intently. He had a way of stopping completely and standing still as something that doesn't move, in front of one violin. He would stare at it as intently as Sherlock stared at him, then suddenly move swiftly to one place or another, saying in a cool but terse way the pros and cons of one violin as opposed to another. The man was absolutely fascinating. And now he was looking at Sherlock sternly. But his eyes smiled.  
  
"You have a very curious charge, Miss," he said in his educated, drawling way.  
  
"You mean he's odd, or he thinks everything else is odd?" She smiled behind her hand.  
  
"Both, Miss. Come, Sherlock, and pick which violin you would like."  
  
Sherlock looked intently at the violins. Then he pointed to one, the one closest to her. Its wood was polished to a shine, and the pegs had pearl laid into the handle. But that wasn't why he picked it; He picked it because the color of the wood was dark brown. Just like her violin.  
  
"Very good." The man picked up the violin and bow. He placed the bow on the counter and bent over to see eye to eye with Sherlock. He placed the violin beneath Sherlock's chin. "Hold out your arm, yes, yes, very good. Now hold the scroll--gently, now! Well, well, you are quite tall for your age, is he not?"  
  
"Yes, he is. So he fits a full-size violin?"  
  
"Indeed."  
  
"That means that, if you are very, very careful with this violin, you will never outgrow it."  
  
"Yes. Now, watch me. I shall show you how to hold the bow. Your fingers must not straighten out, like this, when you hold the bow, and you must not hold it like you would a club. Only your fingertips may touch the bow, and they must be rounded, gently curved, you see?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because it's easier to draw the bow properly across the strings this way. It looks better, as well."  
  
"Ohhhh..."  
  
"Thank you, sir."  
  
The man put the violin and bow in a soft velvet case, along with a soft cleaning cloth and a box of rosin. "Thank you, miss, and good day!"  
  
She didn't hold Sherlock's hand as they left, for his hands were full with the violin case. But her fingers rested gently on his shoulder as she ushered her charge of two years back to the cab.

* * *

.  
A/N: THANK YOU, Sigerson, Haley Macrae, and TeriyakiKat, for reviewing! To answer you breifly:  
  
TeriyakiKat: Yes, yes, that's exactly what I'm trying to do! And the first one was, after all, when he was six years old, so it should be somewhat whimsical. But putting little tantalizing hints of what's to come is a specialty of mine, and of course I'm going to do the same here!  
Hm, I intended Mycroft to be about twelve, fifteen at the oldest. But both of them are very intelligent, so it's not hard for him to pick it up. And I'm thinking Sherlock would be the one to pull it into a more definite shape, since it is his little creation, after all. And it just seems right by his personality. I'm going to make that the subject of one of these. :D  
  
Haley Macrae: Thank you! It is interesting, watching their childhoods affect them as adults, isn't it? I'll update as fast as I can!  
  
Sigerson: Yes, there are grammatical mistakes, and you aren't imagining it when Holmes sounds a bit too American. I'm sorry! I'll fix it sometime and upload the results.  
  
Thank you all again!  
HA 


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